


Midnight Sparks

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Art by the lovely doublebraided, Banter, Debating the magic of New Year’s Eve, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Fireworks, First Kiss, Fluffier than I intended, Humor, Let It Snow zine, M/M, New Year’s Eve, Normal AU, Party, Uni AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: Simon and Baz have been notorious enemies since their first disastrous meeting at Agatha’s first annual New Year’s Eve party. Now, the clock’s about to strike midnight on their last year at Watford University, their last New Year’s Eve party—and their last chance at a new beginning.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 22
Kudos: 171
Collections: Let It Snow Zine





	Midnight Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s my fic for the Let It Snow Zine, complete with absolutely stunning art by @doublebraided! You can find her on [Tumblr](https://doublebraided.tumblr.com) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/doublebraided/); I highly rec following her if you enjoy top-tier fan art.

**Baz**

I'm in the corner scowling, because my idiot cousin has deigned it appropriate to drag me to Agatha Wellbelove's annual New Years Eve party. 

Though— _drag_ might be too strong a word. I wasn't exactly brought here kicking and screaming. I end up giving in to Dev's pleas every year—not for the party or the alleged "magic" of New Years, but for the same curly-haired, blue-eyed boy. 

I take a long swig of the champagne I brought myself (because uni students cannot be trusted to provide decent alcohol themselves), drinking it straight from the bottle. The liquor burns it's way down my throat, fizzing in my stomach and making me feel light-headed. 

My eyes scan the room for him, expecting to find him winning a game of quarters or charming a group of our classmates. I haven't been able to find him all night. Now that it's 11:43 P.M., I'm nearly desperate to catch sight of him before the clock strikes midnight. Not because I think I'll be the one he kisses—but because I'm a bloody masochist when it comes to him. 

I finally spot him in the last place I'd have expected. Before my brain can stop my body, my feet are carrying me to him. 

I open the glass door to the balcony and a rush of cool winter air assaults me. I shiver (though I'm not completely sure whether it's from the cold or from seeing how tight Simon's sweater is). 

"Snow," I greet him, my voice falsely indifferent. 

"Piss off, Pitch," he responds predictably. 

I resist the urge to sigh—I don't really have room to complain about his hostility, considering I'm the one who started this rivalry. I'd seen him around campus before then, always with Wellbelove or Bunce, and he had a magnetism I'd been unwillingly drawn towards. I had daydreamed about striking up a conversation with him and stealing him away from Wellbelove's manicured grasp a hundred different ways by the time we exchanged our first words: back at Wellbelove's first annual New Years Eve party, when Simon spilled a cup of vodka cranberry on my shirt and I called him a worthless cretin. (In my defense, the button up was white, and Simon had turned a delicious shade of crimson that made me want to snog him against the refrigerator. I simply panicked.). Ever since then, we've kept up a tradition of exchanging insults at every one of these soirées. 

I've never gotten him alone, though—he's usually surrounded by a crowd of admirers. (I'm certainly the type to hide alone on the balcony, but Snow's not.)

I ignore his advice, closing the sliding door behind me. I don't have many more excuses to see him left; we're graduating from uni this year. I can't help but seize the opportunity to feel his sun, even though I know I'm just going to get burned. 

"You're missing the festivities. Shouldn't you be doing a keg stand or shoving your tongue down Wellbelove's throat?" It takes a Herculean effort to eliminate all traces of jealousy from my tone. 

"Of course not," Snow huffs. "Why would I be snogging my ex-girlfriend?" 

A mixture of confusion and elation rushes me at the crucial prefix.  _ Ex. _

I pretend the news hasn't affected me whatsoever. "She finally realised what an unsuitable match you two were? Good for her." 

Snow's eyes blaze with self-righteous fire—the kind that never fails to burn me straight down to my core. "Go fuck yourself," he retorts, gripping his can of Tennant's lager so tightly his knuckles whiten. "Why do you bother coming to these? You're practically allergic to having a good time." 

I sneer at him. "I am not." 

"Please. You always look like you've stepped in dog shite." His face contorts in a poor imitation of my scowl. "You know this is a party, mate." 

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Then why are  _ you  _ moping out here alone?”

"Why would I tell  _ you?"  _ Snow snaps. He tries to keep his face impassive, but Snow isn’t much for facades. His emotions always colour his face in shades of peach and crimson and maroon. Today, his scarlet blush tells me he’s embarrassed (and trying to hide it). 

“You know,” I say, and lean on the railing of the balcony. Our arms are mere inches from touching, and the space between us feels heavy with potential. (At least, it does to my lust-addled brain.) “I can’t blame you for hiding out here. This holiday is absolutely ridiculous.”

I think he’s trying to raise a single eyebrow at me, but he’s failing—he looks like a distorted funhouse version of condescension, his face unused to the expression. 

“First of all, whoever invented glitter is a bloody demon. It’s damn near impossible to get the cursed substance out of my suits.”

“A true tragedy,” Snow mocks.

“I’m glad you agree,” I nod. “And trying to get an Uber at 12:30 A.M. on January 1st is a bloodbath. Last year, Gareth stole mine and vomited cheap champagne up in it.”

Delight dances in Snow’s eyes, and his hand goes to his mouth as if to stifle a laugh. “No, he didn’t.” 

“Unfortunately, he really did,” I huff, turning up my nose. “And Uber charged  _ me  _ the $250 pound cleaning fee!”

He can’t hold his laughter back at that. Snow throws his head back in unrestrained joy, and the noise ricochets through my chest, making my heart thrash in double time. 

"You know, I was just thinking about how shitty this holiday is, but you're really making me want to play devil's advocate here." 

"So you admit the pro-New Years Eve side is the devil's position?" 

Snow ignores my comment and replies, "The fireworks are nice." 

"Fireworks are loud and tacky and overrated. Next." 

"There's lots of alcohol," he adds with a swig of his beer. "That's always a plus." 

"Not on January 1st, it's not." 

Snow rolls its eyes. "It's—well—it's just  _ fun,  _ innit? All the confetti and decorations and date glasses—"

"Please," I scoff. “Date glasses look absolutely  _ awful _ on everyone.”

“Even  _ you _ ?” he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief. 

I don't have the emotional wherewithal to begin to respond to  _ that _ , so I don't. Snow continues anyways.

"I don't know why you're so pessimistic," he huffs. "It makes sense for  _ me  _ to dislike this holiday, you know? But  _ you?  _ You're—you're—" He motions to all of me, as if in answer. 

"I'm what?" I prompt.

He huffs. "Well, you're bloody perfect." 

I laugh despite myself. "How do you manage to make what should be a compliment sound like an insult?" 

"You're top of the class, a first chair violinist of the orchestra, the captain of the football team. It's—it's—well, it's  _ infuriating."  _

I'm grateful that my olive skin hides much of my pleased blushing—I hadn't realized Snow had been keeping just as careful tabs on me as I have been on him. 

"Don't be ridiculous. You're Watford University's golden boy." He flushes helplessly, but I go on. "You're at the center of every party, always making everyone laugh and smile." I pause. "Though, I definitely wouldn't call you perfect. I have seen how you wolf down Shepherd's pie, after all." 

"Fuck off," he says, without a hint of malice. 

"Seriously, Snow," I respond. "What's got you so melancholy?" 

"I just…" he lets out a frustrated sigh. "I have nothing to look forward to in the new year—we're graduating and I haven't a clue what I'm doing with my life."

"Does anyone?" 

He narrows his eyes. "Don't you have some cushy banking job lined up for after graduation?" 

"Well," I respond. "Yes." 

"See? Some people have a plan. But _ I _ never do." He runs a hand through his messy curls in frustration. "I just trip and stumble through my life, and I don't know where the bloody hell I'm going." 

I never expected this from Snow—he's always seemed so fearless. He's always shining the most brightly in every room he walks into, making everyone else better in his presence. I hadn't anticipated he'd have such a deep well of insecurity—that, like me, some of his personality might be a front. 

The urge to comfort him crawls up my throat, resting unfamiliar on my sharp tongue. "Having your work life sorted by twenty-two isn't everything…There are much more important things to life." 

"Like what?" he asks genuinely. 

"Well," I respond awkwardly. I hadn't really planned a follow-up to that. Thinking of the time I saw Snow helping a gaggle of lost first-years find their classes like the very picture of chivalry, I carry on with: "Being a decent human being, for one." 

The corner of Simon's lip twitches upwards. "You're 0-1 on that one, mate." 

I shove his shoulder. Instead of fighting back, he laughs. Not quite as carelessly as usual, but I'm still proud that I'm the cause of the twinkle in his eye. 

His brightness is almost  _ too _ much—it squeezes at my heart, overwhelming me with rushes of adoration. I let my eyes wander away from him and through the glass sliding door, catching a glimpse of Trixie and Keris dancing like no one's watching, of Dev and Niall laughing with their foreheads inches apart, of Wellbelove telling a story to a crowd with enthusiastic hand gestures. 

His genuineness has sparked something in me—a desire to be honest, to let him see the real me. "Everyone puts so much damn pressure on today. Everyone's hoping for this impossible, movie-perfect night that they'll never forget." I gesture at the spectacle of the party inside. "They do all  _ this,  _ like today isn't just any other Tuesday, just with more booze and unrealistic expectations. I've never not been utterly disappointed by this holiday. I've never even—"

Alright, no—that's  _ too _ much honesty. I cut myself off before I can finish that humiliating sentence. 

I hope against hope Snow will drop it. 

"Never even what?" he prompts, eagerness shining in his tone. 

"Nothing," I reply, too quickly. 

Snow's smile grows wilder. "Tell me, Baz." 

His voice works on me like a spell, and I find myself replying despite my better judgement.    
"I've never even had a New Year's kiss." 

Snow's jaw drops in near-comical incredulity. "That's impossible." 

I scowl. "It's certainly possible, since it's true." 

He opens his mouth to respond, but he's interrupted by a commotion. 

"10!" 

For just a moment, the world had felt like it was just me and Snow. I'd nearly forgotten the time. 

But the partygoers raging inside screaming the countdown at the top of their lungs certainly gets my attention. 

"9!" 

"Baz?" Simon says softly, turning his body towards me. I mirror him, staring into his blue eyes from an arms-length away. 

"8!" 

"Yeah?" I whisper. There's something new in his expression, something curious and vulnerable. 

"7!" 

"Are you sure that New Year's Eve can't be movie-perfect?" he asks, his voice soft. 

"6!"

I gulp, unsure if he means what I think he means. (What I  _ hope  _ he means.) 

"5!" 

He takes a hesitant step forward, narrowing the distance between us by half. 

"4!" 

I feel the tension between us sparkling like firecrackers. The inches apart buzz like volatile electricity. 

"3!" 

His hand comes up and cups my cheek. His thumb rubs hesitantly at my cheekbone, like a question. 

"2!"

I gather up all my bravery and tell myself:  _ I'm going to do it. _ I'm going to lean in, and I'm going to kiss Simon Snow. 

"1!"

And then  _ he  _ kisses  _ me.  _

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/50901769083/in/dateposted-public/)

**Simon**

Baz Pitch tastes like champagne and serendipity. 

Everything clicks into place with his lips on mine. The way my heart races every time I run into him on campus. The gut-twisting sensation I get watching him run on the pitch. The way my breath caught seeing him coming out onto the balcony in those dark fitted jeans.

I fancy Baz Pitch. 

And if the hungry way he's snogging me is any indication, he fancies me back. 

I can't believe my dumb luck. 

**Baz**

Simon kisses me with his whole body—with a kind of burning passion that lights me up from my chest and flows through my nerves to set me alight. Romantic cliches that usually make me want to scream buzz around my head— _ everything happens for a reason  _ and  _ patience is a virtue  _ and  _ when you find the one, you'll know  _ and all that rubbish doesn't sound half-mad right about now. 

There's a ringing in my ears, cracking bangs that I believe for a moment is just my brain short-circuiting from the mind-numbing joy that is Simon Snow's lips on mine. But when we break apart for breath, I realise there are actual fireworks going off above our heads. Bursts of red and purple and yellow ripping through the dark sky and illuminating Simon's moles and freckles like little stars. 

Simon's face lights up with joy at the thundering lights, like a kid in a sweet shop. A laugh starts in my chest and tumbles past my lips at the sight. His eyes float down to mine, still dancing with delight, as if I'm a sight just as lovely at the fireworks above. 

His hands snake around my waist, pulling me closer to him again so our chests are touching. "Did I change your mind about New Year's Eve?" 

This holiday—which before tonight has always resulted in dashed hopes and pounding headaches—feels infinite in the warmth of Simon Snow's arms.

Maybe I was wrong about the magic of New Year's Eve after all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this cheesy little fic! Thanks for reading, & remember to go follow @doublebraided and reblog her art linked [here](https://doublebraided.tumblr.com/post/642045302089629696/finally-got-to-post-my-contribution-for)!
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com) if you wanna see a queer girl scream about queer ships!


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